To the, no doubt, millions of fans who will be reading this:
I am 35. One week from today, I will be 36. (Side note: did you know that Princess Diana died at age 36? Of course you did. Everyone knows that.)
I have been married for four years. We have been trying to get pregnant for three years. Here's the quick and dirty summary:
Year One: The Year of Denial. In which Husband and I remind each other that it can take up to a year to get pregnant, and hey, we're not entirely spring chickens here, so let's not panic, and also, this is really good, because now we have more time for just the two of us, but as the year goes by, we start to get a little bit worried, especially me, because everybody I know is getting pregnant a lot faster than this.
Year Two: Problems With the Boys. In which we discover that Husband has some Swimmer Issues. Apparently, they're mostly the wrong shape. (SHAPE? We have to care about the shape of these damn things? Shit. In 8th grade health class, they don't tell you that. They just tell you that if you don't put the condom on the banana, or cucumber, or whatever, you'll get pregnant sure as look at you. They lie. And also, the Civil War was not just about slavery.) In which we are also told that in-vitro is probably our best bet. That was a bad day.
Year Three: Problems with the Girls. In which we move to a new city, find a new doctor, sell our house in the midst of a horrible market, live apart for six months (thus decreasing our already slim chances of pregnancy), discover endometriosis, have lap surgery, try IUI twice, fail both times, and now find ourselves back at in-vitro.
Three years ago, we threw away the birth control pills. I thought we'd have a toddler by now. This is how we've been interrupted along the way.